


Lovers' Dirge as Played Upon the Lyre

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Crozier as Hades, Erebus Lieuts as the Fates, Fitzjames as Persephone, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hodge as Orpheus, Jopson as Charon, Little as Eurydice, M/M, Neptune as Cerberus, Romance, THEYRE JUST REALLY REALLY IN LOVE UGH, Tenderness, Unhappy Ending, and a bunch of other charas as human townsfolk, sort of Alice in Wonderland Vibes too at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: A map leading to the Underworld.George gasps, lays the page down on the table delicately, for fear it might dissolve at any moment. He pulls an atlas from his shelf, matches the maps within, takes a magnifying glass to it. Everything looks sound. The only difference is one thick dark circle, but even as George stares at it the blackness seems to shift, bits of color surfacing than diving back within again. The spot is on flat paper yet seems to have depth: limitless, promising, horrible in its unknowability.Terror and Erebus, it is labeled in Bridgens’ recognizable steady hand.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, George Henry Hodgson/Edward Little
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Lovers' Dirge as Played Upon the Lyre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drac/gifts).



> I kind of played fast and loose with the myth so if that will bother you I won't mind if you choose not to read. Otherwise please enjoy! There's a lot of sincere heart-warming romance here, but a lot of pain too.

Two men walk hand in hand down a path on the outskirts of the town. Here they have relative solitude, but they are not lost, the building tops peek over the crest of the hill to their right. The trees are tight, overlapping roots that threaten to trip them, but with the winter they are barren and so the space still feels open and wild, the wind races like a child up and down the branches scattering occasional flurries of leftover snow upon their heads. George cannot feel his ears anymore. He gazes at his partner, whose dark long hair falls upon the sides of his face in handsome waves. His ears are likely fine, covered as they are. In fact, he looks perfectly content, bundled in the crimson scarf and black overcoat that serve as a contrast to bring out the color of his skin. George has explored that skin many times with hands and lips, but he does not think he will ever tire of it. He tugs Edward close.

“Let’s head back.”

“You’re not enjoying this?” Edward says, surprisingly timid, and the fingers of his free glove twitch. George realizes he is embarrassed. Edward had suggested the walk, but that he would even think George bore him any ill will for it is preposterous.

“I always enjoy my time with you,” George reassures, “but I do wish it were summer.”

“If it were summer when you climb into my bed you wouldn’t have the excuse of cold,” Edward jokes, relaxes and George smooths one of his mittens across Edward’s cheeks. The white dots of the snow crystals come off him like powdered sugar. Edward is the sweetest thing George has ever known.

“If it were summer you know I’d do it anyway. Except you’d complain of the sweat.”

“Not for long.”

“No, not for long!” George leans forwards and the kiss is met well. Tender and familiar their lips are against each other, a spark in the frigid air. Edward holds him by the neck. Secure.

“You’d make yourself a distraction,” Edward says when they part. “As you are now. Trying to distract me away from this walk I wanted.”

“It is not my fault you are so easily distracted. Anyhow, I would like to not have to make excuses to climb into your bed. I’ve an idea, let’s have Mr Weekes make us a new larger one, just for us. What say you? Edward Little, won’t you be mine every night?”

Edward blushes in surprise and it is so captivating that George absolutely must kiss him again.

They are terribly in love.

* * *

George is a musician, accomplished in theory (if you fell upon the subject, intentionally or not, it was difficult to move him from it) and also a player of at least five instruments. But his favorite instrument of all is his lyre, a gift from his father. Edward said he thought it fitting since the object was curled and golden like George’s hair. Edward says he thinks perhaps all the most artful things must take this form, a universal constant, which George vehemently disagrees with, because Edward, even in his frequent dourness and dark features, is just as beautiful as his lyre. George is kept busy spreading his music throughout the town, giving lessons to whoever will pay him (and sometimes to those who do not). He is the most reliable player at every event. At parties, birthdays, weddings, George could be relied upon to be their Apollo.

Tonight he is relaxing after a long wedding. Slightly tipsy he spreads out on the sofa and flips idly through a book. He wishes Edward were there, but his lover had been courted by a few of his friends to leave the reception before the night was out, likely now having their own more debauched celebration. Edward had asked permission to go, always considerate of George’s feelings, although it was unnecessary. George had paused to kiss him and say of course he ought to go enjoy himself. Or at least to appease Solomon and the other men.

It is already late, but realistically he knows he should not expect Edward back until the early morning. His lover is not personally extravagant in vice, but he will stay out of politeness, or perhaps they will succeed in getting him drunk enough he will fall asleep and none of his friends will be of sound enough mind to carry him home. It happened before and Mr. Bryant’s bloodshot, hungover eyes had looked very sheepish when he opened the door the next morning to find George waiting to collect. George had teased Edward mercilessly for it, but in truth he did not mind terribly. Lovers must have their own lives after all.

He is contemplating heading to bed when there is aggressive knocking against his door and simultaneous yelling. He barely has the door open all the way before they barrel in, Solomon carrying Edward in his arms like a rag-doll, with a parade of worried faces behind him. Solomon’s hair is wild, there is still drink clearly in him, but the pleasure of it wars with a ragged, physical fear.

“He just collapsed.” Solomon’ speech sutters with his distress, and it is no explanation at all. Edward’s face is wan. He appears confused as wide eyes dart among the faces that surround him and his mouth works wordlessly as George pulls him into his lap, clutching him tight. Thankfully, Tommy had the forethought to call ahead for a doctor and Goodsir arrives only a few minutes later. George is loath to relinquish Edward for any reason, instincts scream to keep him close, but for the medical examination he does. It is quick work, for as soon as Goodsir has pulled the hems of Edward’s trousers up the cause of his illness is apparent.

“It’s a snakebite.” Dr. Goodsir’s voice is strained and he pauses, gulps, before delivering the next part of his pronouncement. “But it’s been too long since it happened. The poison’s already in him. I have . . . some herbs.’

“And these will cure him?”

“They will ease the way.”

Goodsir mixes the herbs into a drink. George holds Edward’s jaw open as gently as he can so Goodsir can ease the concoction into his lover’s mouth. Edward swallows it down. George would hope that is a good sign, but the initial shock in Edward’s face has faded, now his eyes grow glassy, and the fear tightens George’s chest with renewed malicious intent. He feels he cannot breathe and yet he manages to speak.

“This will make you feel better, Edward. You’re going to be better. With Dr. Goodsir’s help. And I’m here. Always.”

“Mr. Hodgson,” a touch to his arm, but George barely feels it, “it is best you decide what your last words to Mr. Little will be. I would not want you to regret wasting them.”

Edward raises a hand and George clutches it to his chest. It feels as if every word is out of his grasp now, language fled at the grimness of the scene, and he bereft as a boat beached on an abandoned shore.

“I’ve heard that in the Underworld it is only winter,” Edward lets out a little choked laugh. “Good for me.”

Trust in Edward to be able to talk when he could not, to fill the gaps for him, as they’d always been two halves of a whole. He croaks out his reply:

“You’ll not be going there.”

“I think I will, George.”

At the sound of his name he buries his face in Edward’s neck, cannot bear to speak anymore, instead presses his cheek and lips against Edward’s pulse. There is hope there in the vibrant beating of Edward’s heart, but it is not to be, soon it falters, slows.

“Please.” George begs, so much a whisper he can barely hear his own voice, but Edward must have heard, for there is a caress at his crown. A tender consolation. Edward was always too kind for his own good; it is so ridiculous that in his death he should be the one doing the comforting. George can no longer dam his throat and lets loose a wrecked wail.

Edward’s heart stops just as the town’s bells begin to chime for the new day.

* * *

The townsfolk let him sit in his grief, forgive the way he stumbles through the lessons, forgetting his direction, and he is so forlorn that the children bring him sweets to try and bring his spirits up. He takes them and accepts their embraces with sighs. If George can be coaxed to smiles now they are cut by half of their usual radiance.

The music is still there. Even more than before. With his lover gone, George has time to work on his compositions. He sits in the town square so he does not feel alone, balanced on the lip of the fountain or sprawled onto the stone. The townsfolk watch him pluck out concepts, curiosity led by a genuine love of music, but also that so human urge to witness the misfortune of another. One cannot begrudge them. No one savors George’s sorrow; simply wish for hints at what will inevitably befall them all. There is hope that knowledge can prepare, help soften the blow, but of course it never does. Not really.

“When will you present us with your new tune?” Peglar, the cooper, asks “Will it be complete soon?”

“Yes, soon, I think.” George stares into the murkiness of the teacup in his hands. He realizes he thoughtlessly has put too much milk in. He never would have done that before. These little changes confound him. Edward’s presence had been like a boulder in a pond: its removal saw the predictable lowering of water, but the rippling effects are also there, the shock to the ecosystem as coastal creatures dried out are forced to scamper to find the waterline again and they will, but a few will not make it. There will be a period of starvation.

Every day George is confronted by these parts of his life he had never realized Edward touched. He could not even make a simple cup of tea anymore. Now he could hardly ask for another could he? George already feels himself an imposition, despite the protests to the contrary. Peglar resides with the local bookshop owner and he and Bridgens invite him weekly to have tea with them. Most of the townsfolk’s invitations he declines these days, when once he was known to exuberantly accept any. Everyone saw this change as a significant marker of the depth of his grief. It is all rather much; the persistent exhaustion on his shoulders leaves him averse to social activities. But Peglar and Bridgens both exude a remarkable calming presence. And they do not push him to talk of Edward nor do they flit about him with excessive cheer. He understands the others have good intentions, but it only grates on his fragile nerves. “Sorrow,” Bridgens says, “is meant to be felt.” So George makes an exception for the two men.

The tea splashes. He’s dropped a tear in it.

“Do you need us to take you home, George?” Bridgens asks.

“No, I-” George blinks, tries to will the tears away, but since Edward’s passing his body has grown defiant. Soon his face is soaked and Bridgens is ever so delicately taking the cup from him, placing it on the table. Peglar is massaging his shoulders and George wants to cry out that he should stop, for Edward would do the exact same when he was sad and what should be a comfort now only draws more pain forth, but he cannot find any voice within him for his own pitiful emotions. George hates himself.

When the torrent subsides, and he finally has a modicum of control, he looks up with bleary eyes, red-faced for the effort, but also shame.

“I put too much milk in the tea,” he says weakly.

“We’ll get you another.”

* * *

The next morning he opens the last book Bridgens gave him and a slip of paper falls out.

It is a map.

A map leading to the Underworld.

George gasps, lays the page down on the table delicately, for fear it might dissolve at any moment. He pulls an atlas from his shelf, matches the maps within, takes a magnifying glass to it. Everything looks sound. The only difference is one thick dark circle, but even as George stares at it the blackness seems to shift, bits of color surfacing than diving back within again. The spot is on flat paper yet seems to have depth: limitless, promising, horrible in its unknowability, 

_Terror and Erebus_ , it is labeled in Bridgens’ recognizable steady hand. 

How Bridgens knows the location of the Underworld George shivers to consider. What he does know is he trusts him. His nerves are alight.

He packs his bags and sets out on the trek. He predicted it should take about a month, but he arrives at his destination in under a week. He wonders if there is a trick to this for it had appeared further on the map, but the sequence of landmarks he encounters are correct, until he finally comes upon a river misted over with fog.

There is a boat on the shore and a figure to guide it. The Boatman’s eyes are so pale his pupils are near eclipsed by the arctic chill of the irises. George offers his hand in greeting, but he is rebuffed, instead the Boatman tucks his dark bangs behind his ear and picks up his oar.

“Have you the coin, sir?”

“I do,” George fishes in his pockets and hands it over.

“It is customary to be placed under the tongue,” the Boatman sniffs, “I hope this does not mean that those Above are becoming complacent. There is an Order to things.”

“Above you say? Does that mean we are Below already?”

“The last man I ferried said he had ‘long wanted to go below’. Well, he changed his tune quickly. Then again, that might have been because he was mourning the loss of his legs. I do not know what he expected, that they should regrow once we crossed Styx? Death is not a rebirth.”

 _A simple yes would have sufficed_ , George thinks, _these Gods are an odd sort._

“I am not a God.”

“Oh.”

George spends the rest of the trip trying to keep his brain as free of thought as possible, to little success. After he disembarks the Boatman hands him back his coin.

“What’s this for?”

“You’ll bring your Edward back Above so it is inevitable that some day, hopefully when you are old and grey, you will return. And then you will have to pay me.”

George takes the coin and continues on. The fog has grown thicker, as if he is moving through a brackish soup instead of air, but the mouth to the cave is gaping and unmissable. He takes out his lantern, lights it, and descends further. The lantern is a new fangled thing, made of thicker material and sealed tight to last in harsh climate, or so Gibson said when he had shown him how to pour the oil into it.

“You have a ring on your finger,” George had remarked. “Why haven’t you told anyone you got married?”

“Well, with you knowing now I’ve told the whole town.”

“I won’t. I understand secrets. I’ve got a secret too.”

“Hm.”

“I’m going to visit my lover,” George leans in conspiratorially although there is no one else in the shop to hear. Gibson’s gaze is unreadable, unchanging.

“Edward?” he asks. Gibson had been at the funeral.

“Yes.”

“As you wish, Mr. Hodgson.”

He knew it must sound ridiculous, the fancy of a man driven mad by grief, but Gibson was a reserved sort and he would not go gossiping. It felt good to tell someone else, beyond Peglar and Bridgens, and with the way Gibson looked down at his ring, with fondness softening his harsh features, he seemed to know something of love.

George hears the snuffling before he sees it and so he has time to steel himself. He sets the lantern down and removes his lyre from his pack. The dog is gargantuan, each of its three heads thicker than George’s body laid out, its curtains of excessive fur shake like a waterfall. The three heads raise and George can see the muscles contract in its throat, primed to bark, to alert the residents to his presence, but he stops the animal with a strum of the strings.

“Hampstead is the place to ruralize, ritituralize, extramuralize. Hampstead is the place to ruralize on a summer’s day. Where you can take a ramble, away from London fogs. Across the heath you scramble, being mindful of the frogs.”

George sings as confident and airily as he can and bobs his head in time to emphasize the gaiety of the song. The dog’s hackles flatten. When the song is over it approaches with no aggression, noses at George, and licks at the top of his head, rough tongue pulling his hair up in a wet curl.

“I’ll not need anyone to fix my hair for any occasion when I have you.” George pats its muzzle. “Now that we are such good friends, will you let me through?”

“If you thought you could slip past us like that you are a fool.”

The man has a tight brown beard, tight and neat, and full lips pinched in annoyance.

“You are George Henry Hodgson?” he asks.

“Yes. I’ve come to find Edward Little. Do you know him?”

“I do. This is most untoward I think, but everyone spoke against me in permitting you down here. To bring someone back from the dead goes against everything and the Gods do not make mistakes, Mr. Hodgson. Your crisis is an opportunity to repair yourself. But you came here anyway and now Lord Francis and Lady James request I escort you immediately to have an audience with them.”

“Well, I thank you for your help. I’d have had awful difficulty finding the place on my own I imagine.”

“Call it anything but help,” he says, snaps his fingers, and suddenly George is alone in front of a stone wall into which is set a grand door of cypress wood, emblazoned with designs of pentagonal asphodel blossoms. Atop it sit three statues of men. Or at least George thought they were statues, with their textured grey bodies, until one moves.

“Curiouser and curiouser!” exclaims the tallest of the trio, craning down to peer at George from his perch, the action causing his silver hair to sway even in the musty still air.

“Give me the Eye, Dundy, I’d like to see him,” says the round-cheeked one.

“Am I always to be the last, Graham?” says the mustachio-ed one, petulance clear.

“Have we been neglecting you? My dear fellow, you should have pointed it out sooner! Of course you may have the Eye before I.”

Despite his companions’ conversation the one called Dundy looks to be in no mood to give up his Eyes in any way as he continues to stare at George.

“I cut Little’s string myself, you know. Awful business when we have to do that so soon. Not fun at all.”

They are interrupted as the door bursts open, a sudden blast of light blinds, but it quickly abates to reveal a man in deep green gown, his brown hair seemingly waving in an unseen spring breeze, and the scent of flowers about his person, not cloying like ladies’ perfumes, but fresh and alive. George is overcome with a sense of relief.

“Lady James!” Dundy exclaims in delight, but is ignored as the man takes George’s hand, elegant fingers easily intertwining with his.

“I cannot believe these buffoons have kept you waiting, as if you are not an honorable guest, come, come. He’s been waiting.”

He is pulled down hallways lined with gemstone, crimson carpets, and finally into a grand room of marble. At the end is a small throne on a plinth, but George is immediately taken by the figure crouching at its foot. Clad in all black the figure lets out a full body gasp at their entrance. Even with the veil covering his face, George would recognize the set of those shoulders, the shape of the torso, and all reason leaves him as he detaches himself from James and runs forward. Beside himself, he catches Edward in his arms and spins him, wild as a whirling dervish. He kisses the edge of Edward’s jaw through the fabric as they twirl, the shaking laughter he feels there in response only magnifies his mood, his unadulterated, divine joy. When George has caught his breath, sets Edward upon his feet again, he makes to pull the veil up, but as soon as he does Edward grabs his wrist.

“No.”

“You cannot look upon the dead.” The new voice is in an unfamiliar accent. George notices for the first time that the throne behind Edward holds a man, middle-aged and pale, weary, but with a paternal smile about his thin lips. He is unassuming, but regal. George realizes he is looking upon Lord Francis himself. Yet, his heart protests at the King of the Underworld’s words.

“Edward, I must look upon you. I will. I’ve come to take you home.”

“We know. You’ve done so much for me. I hardly think I deserve it.”

“How could I not? When I learned I could find you, how could I refuse the quest, when I knew you are here suffering.”

“I am not suffering.”

“How can you say that! Surrounded by . . .“ George waves his hand around the hall whose emptiness hangs like the weight of a ghost.

“You do not see it as I do. There is beauty here, trees, rocks, the same things as our world only forgotten. It is like an unending winter and I am very cold, but I am not alone. The only thing I’ve wanted for has been you.”

George once again draws him close. “You have me. If this is where you are I will stay here.”

There is a delicate cough. The sound had come from James, but when the lovers look up, he averts his gaze. Francis sighs.

“By rule Mr. Hodgson cannot stay here.”

“Why not? Can’t you make an exception?” Edward pleads.

James is wistful. “Even we, as the rulers of this place, are slaves to its natural bounds. As I must reside here six months of the year, far from my friends and family, for the human crime of hunger and desire,” he looks at Francis, “so you two must also abide.”

“But,” Francis raises his hand, “there is a way Mr. Little might return to the living.”

The challenge is presented so simply George can hardly believe his ears. All he must do is lead Edward to the surface and not look at him until the journey is complete. He has spent over a year without Edward’s face. He can surely wait a day’s walk back to the riverbank.

“John,” Francis calls, and the haughty brown bearded man materializes again, “take them to the gate.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The lantern is still sitting on the floor where he’d left it when he’d played for the dog. “I’ll take it,” Edward offers. “Go on. You know the way. As we go my veil will disintegrate, so once it begins we cannot stop.”

George tucks his lyre under his arm and begins to climb the incline back to the mouth of the cave. He climbs towards their future. Edward will look even better in the sunlight, George thinks, when the underworld shadows that infest him are chased away. George will feed him until he is hale and strong, George will play for him until dawn, George will make love to him until Edward knows no other happiness than the union of their bodies. George resolves to give him every pleasure in the world and then some.

After some time comes a tentative question:

“Won’t you turn and look at me?”

“Not yet. Not yet!” George chirps, as if projecting joviality into his voice will help maintain morale, and continues walking. Time continues to pass. If they were above ground it might be something to savor, the pause between lovers so close they do not feel forced to fill their time together with performance, but George and Edward have been separated for too long. The almost silence is strange and menacing. George is seized with a sudden fear that the light breathing and footsteps behind him are an illusion, that the lantern’s rays are an evil trick.

“Edward?” He reaches behind, fumbles for Edward’s hand, and finds it. He receives a gentle squeeze.

“I’m here.”

“Yes, you are,” he confirms.

“You may turn around if you are uncertain.”

He shakes his head. “I know this is a test. Do not ask that of me. I will not.” Resolute.

His initial giddiness continues to devolve as they go, even with the renewed connection. Perhaps it is the feel of Edward’s skin on his own. Fantasies of their future together are chased away by memories. George remembers lying under the moonlight and seeing Edward’s hair violet in the darkness below him, body lost in the grass, appearing almost melded to the earth, but for the way the silver light caught his eyes and their sincere delight. To his horror George realizes he cannot find the happiness in these memories anymore; since Edward’s death he has turned them over in his mind so often they have become steeped with melancholy. The same yearning he had felt before entering the Underworld returns in full force.

“What is it?” Edward asks, ever sensitive to his moods.

“It is unbearable. We are so close, I know it, but it aches. I very much wish to look upon you.”

“Then look at me. Turn around.”

“Stop saying that! Don’t be insufferable or I shall do it just to spite you.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Sadly, you are correct. Well, I mean to say, as soon as I looked at you I’d be unable to be angry anymore. You with your lovely face, winsome smile,“ George’s voice starts to pitch, transforming into a melody. He releases Edward's hand in order to pluck out a few notes on his lyre. “I’m going to write the most wonderful song for you. Another one! A new one for this new Edward. I’m sure we have many things to learn about each other! I believe every new thing about you will be wonderful. I cannot wait.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say, George.”

He can hear the smile in Edward’s voice, imagines its sensitive lilting, and the soft gratefulness of his eyes, but like all visions it is impartial, inconsistent. The ephemerality of memories somehow only worsen the pang in George’s heart.

He turns.

It is beyond his control, the irresistible pull, the tortuous desire to witness his darling Edward in all his glory. When he realizes what he has done the lyre clatters to the floor, but neither can hear it over George’s choking scream.

Edward shows no shock save for the light drop of his mouth, a melancholy mien that does not match the searing pain that has branded George’s heart. Edward steps forward and grasps his lover’s trembling face in both hands. His body has already begun to fade, George can see the textures of the cave walls behind, the stalactites seem to pierce into Edward’s flesh, ripping and rending.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” George wails, knowing it is useless, knowing it means nothing and in another moment Edward will be gone forever.

“Thank you,” Edward repeats and kisses him. The movement is not one of desperation or sorrow, but orchestrated tenderness, comforting familiarity. George clutches at the insubstantiality of Edward’s shoulders, but where their lips connect is blessedly warm, blessedly real for one last sparkling moment.

When the remnants of Edward’s body spiral into the ether and George cannot bear to stare at the empty cave anymore, he collapses to the ground, curling in upon himself and sobbing against the coldness there. His tears coalesce and run in rivulets along the stone floor, to nourish the lonely flora of the cave’s interior. So death breeds life and the cycle continues.

* * *

When Edward arrives, James places a coin into Francis’ palm. A symbolic gesture, but Francis is steadfast in making his point, so James must play the part. They embrace Edward in turn.

“I predicted this, but you must know I do not relish this outcome,” Francis says.

“I really had quite hoped against it,” James says.

“I know.” Edward sits heavily. He touches the vegetables spread on the table, remnants from James’ last harvest basket. Their skins are golden like George’s hair.

James holds a split pomegranate in his hand and presses a nail into one of the pips. It splits and becomes a red spot on his skin, as if he were just cut, reminiscent of pain. He contemplates the drop of juice, eyes flick to Francis and back, and then he definitively presses it into his mouth.

“Why did you keep asking him to turn?” he asks.

Edward’s next words are halting: “I think I could not bear being in his shadow. That is not what love is.”

“And you wanted to know he loved you,” Francis says.

“Yes. And now it shall be easier here, I believe, to know our love was not just memories, it was not just a past he wanted to return to. He lives, he still loves, and so it was worth it, in the end.”

“That does not erase the tragedy of it.” James is morose. Francis takes his spouse’s hand.

“No, it does not,” Edward says, and for the first time since he had seen George’s beautiful face contorted in both love and anguish, Edward allows his own tears to slip forth. James presses a handkerchief to his face. Solemnity is heavy as the fall of night time snow.

They eat without speaking, the only sound the distant echo of a lyre.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!! Reactions in comments and/or kudos are always very much appreciate, and encourage me to write more@
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines) or [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com)


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